Ghosts
by Sable a.k.a. Psychobitchua
Summary: Psylocke comes to Xavier's mansion to say last goodbye to an old friend


You didn't expect me to come back, do you? I didn't either. But the world goes round, and things happen. Unfair things, cruel, stupid and meaningless.  
  
I used to have all these angry conversations about God and religion at general all my life. It gave me pure pleasure to come on the church meetings, where all nice families of our society were gathering to speak about His divine presence in our everyday life, about His guiding hand, that will never let us fall, and simply sit there, listening to the greatest delusion of humanity.. But after the first twenty minutes it always became difficult to keep quiet. My laughter always broke the wall of resistance.  
  
Their gazes on me. Slippery, going through the skin, searching, studying. The girl with red tattoo across her eye and purple hair, laughing hysterically in the place and in the time, where and when you should keep your head down, praising God silently-it's wrong. There's nothing you can do-I came from the age of Grotesque -funny and absurd. I was weird in their eyes. If they only could see the world with mine, they'd see the crashed mirror of reality.  
  
Our Saver. I have to give him a credit: he acts like a real father-beats a shit out of his children, who can take everything, because in their brains only one truth is written with golden letters: the father is always right. Blind and deaf humanity is holding its father by the hand, not knowing, that every single moment this hand can slap it or just disappear without explanations, which is even worse.  
  
I'm sorry, Father, you have always asked too much from me. Your truth is not for me-it's beyond understanding. Especially now.  
  
She had never been my friend. She had never had any friends really, in a true, deep meaning of this word. She had many secrets, hidden places inside her head, which were closed to anybody. I guess, she was afraid to look there herself.  
  
Normal people can't understand this. Your brain for you is just an instrument for everyday living. You use your hands to brush your hair, your mouth to talk, your eyes to see and your brain to think. Mostly-because I have met people in my life, who had an emptiness in their heads. I was looking in their eyes and saw the nape, nothing in-between. Not even a wind- just emptiness, like a white piece of paper. And guess what, they never wanted to write something down this paper. I know this, because I have a gift-there are times, when I call it damnation-to read things, that are written on those pieces of paper I was just talking about.  
  
She and I, and Professor, and some other people know too much. It doesn't depend on whether you wanna know or not-it just comes inside your brain. Brain is a computer. If you want it to work well, you should delete some files time after time, but the thing is, it's easy to throw all the garbage, and really scary stuff never goes away. You, people, have a gift to forget, we-the damnation to remember. For us our head is a really dangerous place. You never know, what ghost of the past will rise suddenly, taking away your sleep. The worst thing is that sometimes it's not even your ghost. But you have to suffer with it, listen to its cries forever.  
  
Many of us suffer from insomnia, horrible headaches, nightmares and fears without single clear reason. Many of us die young from brain cancer or commit a suicide, because, as I have already said, we know too much.  
  
Dear God, do you really think, that telepathy is a greatest present and I should be grateful for it all my life? Than fuck you, mister Follow-Me-And- You-Will-Never-Loose-Your-Way. I'm not even sure, that this is my way. Strange thoughts for a girl, who was in love with an angel once, huh?  
  
I never loved her and sometimes her altitude of a Mother Of All Humanity drove me nuts. Love and friendship are not those things that appear in the relationships of two women. Understanding-that's the keyword. So I understood her.  
  
I was the first to notice, that something is wrong with her. But being afraid to loose the trust in our "mind communications", the most important thing in my life, I have never told a soul. That's why now the demons of guilt try to destroy me. And this time they are all mine. She avoided talking about herself, quickly jumping to my personal problems, she repeated too often, that she was fine, but the main thing, that disturbed me, was her color.  
  
I see people in colors. In general meaning I can differ good people from mean-the first type is white, the second is black. When I look deeper, I can see many shades and colors. She was always pale blue, like a sea in the middle of summer, the symbol of calmness and pure thoughts, bright contrast with my rebel purple essence.  
  
After the breakup with my guarding angel, I spent my time in Europe, but long distance never affected our communication. "Mind communication" is a very special thing-sometimes I hear the voice, loud and clear, like while talking on the phone, sometimes I see pictures, but the first thing I always notice is color. We started to contact more often-maybe deep in my soul I needed her advice and calm voice. And when you see (hear in our case) a person often enough, you don't notice little changes.  
  
I woke up, when it was already too late. Her color changed to dark blue. And it was too late to "read" her-she had made her decision and closed the door to her brain. I was feeling her pain and disturbance, sometimes close to quiet hysteria, but I couldn't see her thoughts anymore.  
  
Everything happened so fast. Damn, I thought, she had problems with Scott- she was crazy in love with him, and he's the type of guy, who is in the epicenter of world's problems. I knew about hairy creature, who really needed to be taught some good manners, named Wolverine-I saw him inside her head often enough. It wasn't a love-triangle, not that loud. Yes, she thought about another man time after time, but her man was always Scott. Her ghosts fooled me. She was too right, and innocent sexual fantasy could become a great tragedy. She felt guilty for nothing, that's why her color had changed.  
  
Her ghosts told me so. And I was horribly wrong, when I believed.  
  
"See you in the another reality. Love you. Jean." This was the last line in the screenplay of Jean Grey's life. The last line I had read, which had stuck in my head, which made me come back here today.  
  
So love between two heterosexual women is possible?  
  
Jean Grey had drown in the insane cold waves. I want to believe, that I knew her good enough to think, that "another reality" was the truth she believed in. She didn't say goodbye, which means, that she felt the rebirth in there. I'm a telepath, powerful enough to make you give me your credit card and feel happy about it, but I know nothing about the place she disappeared in. And the place she can come back from one day. She would never left the ship, knowing, that there's no second chance. She never believed in second chances as a scientist, but she did as a woman, and even 1% of confidence was enough.  
  
I believe in this 1%, and my ghosts won't be able to kill my hope.  
  
Nobody knows I'm here, even Professor-he didn't expect me to be present at the funeral, knowing me good enough. The cheap play with an empty coffin and true tears is not for me. Plus, I'm not sure I'm ready to see Cyke-we were not friends in his best days, and now.  
  
But I'm here for you, Jean. These flowers are for you, and my true bitter tears are only for you. Warren said, I was a cruel person, who couldn't cry, before he left, and watching him go away I was thinking, he was right.  
  
I'm crying now, and all the ghosts-mine, yours, someone else's are crying with me. I had so many questions after I got your last message, but since I saw your grave, touched its deadly cold surface with my fingers to prove to myself, that I'm not sleeping, only one left.  
  
"Will you show me the way to your another reality?"  
  
Oh shit, this is Scott walking with his head down. Oh shit, no matter how hurt he is now, he will recognize me-Elizabeth Braddock is not the kind of person you will quickly forget. And oh shit, teleportation is not among my abilities.  
  
He looks at me trough his glasses, the guy, who once was trying to teach me some discipline and proved to the whole world, that this is impossible, and then in our combined impulse, we reach to each other, starting to cry hard in each other's arms. Another grotesque picture of nowadays: Cyclops is holding Psylocke and showing her his weakness. Strange, but right. Now I have his ghosts in my head, and I'm ready to live with them, if it makes his life better.  
  
Ghosts, Father, not your Divine Presence.  
  
THE END. 


End file.
